Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Saga of The Inept. chapter 3

A variety of lectures divied out to Pascal and Ulivier, Richter, Inrinara, Marth, and jane

Chapter 3

The answers mentioned by Mr. Tom Hannibal are given in between various lectures.

By some miracle, Roland had completely avoided every stray magikarp and basculin in the entirety of the lagoon (though he was close to getting munched on by a particularly tenacious basculin) It's a miracle what one can do when one's life is at risk, Roland had reduced what would have been a 30 minute swim to a 10 minute swim (even though it was only 20 feet back to the shore at best. The Karrablast spit out grimy water like a water fountain and breathed heavily in the algae-encrusted soup of the near shore, completely forgetting how disgusting the shore was. He remembered about 10 seconds later and nearly vomited as he coursed out of it as quickly as possible.

Thankfully, Roland was now on the shore; blessed by the ground and emphatically grateful that he was out of the fray. His first instinct was to rest or return to demanding tribute from Carson, but by this time his parents were probably there helping him do something lowly and fundamental, like giving him gluten-free berries for their “special little bidoof”. What a bunch of dweebs. Speaking of food, Roland had also just lost his primary source of nourishment; now how would he get food? He was quite irked by all of the above.

“B'lloony?...Buddy?...” came far off in the distance, over a hill or so. It was the concerned bellow of a slowbro. He was headed this way and the Karrablast couldn't muster the speed to avoid the inevitable idiot. He tried, though, but just before he would have gotten out of sight...

“Ohai buggy!” suddenly cooed Paul quite loudly. He cooed so loudly, in fact, that it nearly made the karrablast trip in sheer anxiety. Roland kept his footing however, and, being on his feet and in contact with the soil, could feel the heavy, rumbling magnitude of Paul's approaching stomps. He was trapped, and he turned around grimly, to face his fear. By the time he did, Paul was a short 5 meters away, waving cheerfully yet dully at Roland. “Howzit goin?”

“I'd be better if you didn't headbutt me with your thick skull!” burst Roland as he extended his paw towards Paul to make his point. Paul replied with a dull stare into the abyss. Paul had forgotten that he launched Roland at mach speed “Eh? Too stupid to reply, stupid?” condescended Roland.

“Naw. Juss lookin for B'lloony and Buddy snail.”

The karrablast stared off confusedly. “Who on earth is the buddy snai-”. Roland answered his own question before he even finished his own sentence: buddy snail was his breakfast. “DON'T TELL ME THAT THE SUMBITCH GOT AWAY!!!” the karrablast turned around, infuriated and suddenly beset on a third, far more elevated priority: the shelmet.

“But I dunno where buddy snail went, buggy.” said Paul sorrowfully, tilting his head down quite dissapointedly. A furious bug type noticed the circular little potholes in the road.

“ARE YOU THAT GODDAMN DENSE?!?!?! THE B*****D LEFT FOOTPRINTS!!” Roland addressed the slowbro no further and quickly followed the remnants of Ulivier's tracks. It looked like Roland would get his breakfast yet, hopefully by dinner.

Paul was confused, but inferred that Roland was on to something: his friends! His jog shook the earth, causing Alfonso considerable pain as his teeth were strained on the bouncing tail of Paul. “Wait for me buggy!” it would be some time before Roland would get his dinner, and at that it didn't warrant that he would be eating escargot...

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Rutherford's ears were alerted suddenly by the noise of an opening door which stood at the indent between parallel wings of his large villa. Presently, he was reading a book on advanced calculus, so to impress his many friends with academic achievement. It was difficult though, and the entrancing, intrinsic property of most textbooks prevented him from glaring over much of the interior of his house. White stone, stucco and plaster made up the walls and occasionally the ceiling. Often the stone was decorated with ornamental designs, be it a mosaic of the family's patron deity, arceus, or a mosaic depicting him or his family of 4 together. Wood rarely constituted much of it; when it did, it lay protecting the family from the elements as a roof of old, ancient oak. 2 rooms away was the kitchen, and 8 rooms away and up a staircase lay his master bedroom. It was a pain in the a*s to grab a midnight snack; thats why Marth, the family cook (though occasionally subpar; he was still an apprentice) was often tasked with ferrying him food in the middle of the night. The hall of his living room was tall and adorned with windows that cast light at different angles as the day went on; solar light was preffered in Rutherford's villa, and candles only illuminated the white sandstone walls during the darkest evenings. Rutherford could be summoned from reading now because someone special was home: “Papa! I'm back from training!” it was his daughter, and with surprising zeal he stood up from reading a novel on diplomacy to greet his pride and joy.

“Good to see you!” he said, back aching as father and daughter confided in a reciprocal nuzzle, admired as a gesture of great honor between feline folk. After this, the husky purugly sighed in relief, a smile uncharacteristic for the high-profile aristocrat (sometimes minus the r); it was his job to keep a stern, uncaring demeanor unless approached with those with common interest. His daughter deserved the smile though, for Rutherford Appolinarus knew in his heart that his daughter would always have his best interest. He sighed in relief, glad to see his Arcean broach safe on his daughter. “Tell me about training. Was it enjoyable for my little minnow?~” the purugly tugged at the cheek of the skitty endearingly, causing the cat pokemon to giggle in embarassment.

“Stahp it!” she cooed as her father obliged to her request to desist. “But yeah! Mr. Hannibal is super cool! He can punch through anything, even a piece of steel! And its super cool and I got really tired but it was ok and-”

“Alright, dearie.” interrupted the purugly, still as warmly accustomed to his daughter as ever. “I get the picture, and I'm very glad that Mr. Hannibal did a good job with teaching you to his fullest.” after all, Tom Hannibal owed more than a few favors to the courtier than several of his correspondants. “I want you to answer me honestly about something, Jane.” said a suddenly stern Rutherford.

“Wazzat?”

Rutherford got close to the skitty, making solicitous eye contact with his daughter. “Did anything bad happen to you while you were away? I need to know so that if something terrible happens to you I can hire a bodyguard to-”

“A ghost stole my Broach, daddy!” cheeped the skitty abruptly.

Rutherford's jaw fell to the floor for a few moments, though the purugly did a good job of composing himself, nodding nervously and processing the fact that his heirloom had just been mortally endangered. He stared at the nucleus of the broach, seeing the engravement of...

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“The Arceus on the front!” affirmed Emeril for the nth time to Petruchio, his domineering papa of the Prinemport mafia. Needless to say, Petruchio was more than liberal about how his office was maintained. The only light shed on the weavile's were candles, wax spilling over them and encrusting the surface of Petruchio's crooked desk. The place smelled like a sewer (because it was in a sewer), though not of garbage or other wastes. The room was thickly scented by a robust sea salt above the office and fermenting seaweed; the former sometimes seeping through and dripping occasionally, never hitting the candles. Petruchio loved to smoke, and his box of herbs were one of the only things well kept among the frazzled furniture and ripped chairs. Every herb imagineable was synthesized to the connoisseur's design; Petruchio alone consumed 20% of the premier herb served on the mafia's infamous black market. What wasn't made of poorly maintained furniture was of mossy, damp and invisible cobblestone or rusty, tarnished grates which caught water. Petruchio hated it, but then again, beggars couldn't be choosers; it was a crappy office or having to rub elbows with his subordinates, one of his least favorite was sitting in front of him. The only thing that opiated the grouch was his prime supply of rawst leaf, his favorite smoking material.

Sitting displeased and preoccupied with smoking a piece of Rawst leaf, the weavile wasn't keen to presume every little tall tale of the misdreavus was correct. “It was made of pure platinum! Had it not stunned me It would be right here ready to be shifted around! At least give me the credit for stealing it from that skitty,” Petruchio didn't want to put up with the Misdreavus' impotence any longer. He gave the impression that he didn't give a damn with a masterful stinkeye. “...its a big improvement...over some of the other theft...” said Emeril, nervous and scared like he had seen a ghost.

Petruchio set his legs off of his chair and tossed his leaf away after taking one last huff of his Rawst leaf. Shutting his eyes, setting his arms on his desk, and drumming his fingers on the scratched wood, he placed an impression of impatience quite well on Emeril.

“Prove it.”

Emeril looked around nervously, sweat figuratively radiating off of his head as he continually glanced. “I-I don't have the broach.”

Sighing quite poignantly, he took out another rawst roll and lit it with the end of his candle. “I know the broach that you're talking about, Emeril.” Petruchio said as he took a huff of the smoky, flavorful incense. He exhaled in the misdreavus' area quite passive-aggressively. “I also know of the family quite well. That dipshit skitty is the daughter of one of legit high-rollers in Prinemport. At first glance he might seem like another brick in the wall of the damned city administrators cramping our style.” another huff. “At first.”

“W-what do you mean, boss?”

“I mean that the Appolinarus family is on really, really good terms with the hierophant behind the scenes. We have spies in his papacy and we know well enough that its been on good terms with the Appolinaruses since Prinemport was founded.” He paused his urgent tone of voice to take a third smoke from rawst leaf. “We also know that his twerp has the broach. We've seen it and you probably have, too, or at least heard of that talisman. If you went ahead and told me that you actually stole that little relic without proof, you would presume that I'm stupid enough to believe that Rutherford Appolinarus' daughter was unattended and waltzing around the outskirts of Prinemport carelessly.”

A pause ensued. Petruchio smoked his rawst leaf. Emeril prepared himself to reply.

“That's exactly what I've been trying to tell you, sir.”

Petruchio took a long inhale of Rawst leaf, causing the leaf to burn nearly all the way. “M'kay.”

…

<<shadow claw>>.

Emeril would have easily brought down the door had he constituted any matter, but the ghost instead phased through the door, winding up on the floor and facing the gate to hell the door had suddenly become. Emeril was grateful that Petruchio had restrained his shadow claw to a minimal power, though the misdreavus knew that he only did so to make sure that Emeril would be around for further scolding. The door opened in slow motion and slammed. Petruchio's brows were tilted downward in utter choler as he crossed the damp, stone hallway to grab Emeril by his necklace. After doing so he tutted the misdreavus, barely restarining himself from lashing out with another shadow claw. “You just had to be smart and take me for a dummy, didja.”

“I'm telling you the truth this time!” pleaded Emeril, sobbing and regretting for once in his life being an a*s. He was pummeled, on the verge of fainting, and was then dropped to the floor.

“Maybe you should start learning not to cry wolf.” sibilated Petruchio as he spit out his rawst leaf on Emeril, searing his forehead. Petruchio marched to his door, but before he slammed it...

“One more thing, Emeril.”

“W-what...” sniffled Emeril.

“If you play wolf on me again you're fired. If you do, then I hope you enjoy being put on a special spot on my s**t list.” the door slammed. Down the hallway could be heard the footsteps of a predative lizard. Annie the scraggy stood smiling maliciously in front of Emeril.

“Havin' a bad day, are we?” said the scraggy, african drawl twanging in her vocalizations almost as spitefully as the sound of her knuckles cracking. Emeril simply nodded in reply as the scraggy backed up, getting ready to charge. “Imma make it ten times worse.”

A crowd of low level mafia gathered to watch Annie strike emeril for ten minutes straight.

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Marth was terrified; the salt was put in his soup after the pepper. The resident chef of the Appollinarus' estate was petrified by the misimpetus of seasoning, and it wasn't because of Rutherford's preference. Unless the wingull soup (they make use of the dead bodies of poor, juvenile wingulls. It's completely acceptable within pelliperian culture to make use of corpses bodies. It's their form of cremation) was seasoned with salt before the pepper, then the pepper would be quickly absorbed into the sensitive flesh of the wingull. The meat would thereby be disgustingly spicy and bitter to the taste, it reacted far better with a seasoning of salt, and a wonderfully savory flavor would be instilled into the meat, which is why wingull soup was a delicacy. Marth had just ruined 300 gold pieces worth of meat.

“Marth!” suddenly called Mr. Appolinarus from the corridor in the distance, probably expecting to sample the wingull soup for himself. At this point, Marth the archen was restricted to playing it cool and pretending that the soup hadn't been ruined. Sweat rolled off his naked head and into his feathers as he absently stirred at the desecration of wingulls' corpses. Enter Rutherford. “How's the soup doing?”

“I-it's good...but its boiling hot! You can't eat it or else you'll burn yourself!” said Marth, subconsciously imploring the purugly to not sample his soup.

“Don't worry, Marth m'boy,” assured the fat feline, coursing beside the archen and taking a look into the huge pot of soup. “I'm quite partial to hot food.” Marth had forgotten this the 3rd time this month. The grabbed the ladle from the archen's hand with his prehensile, springish tail, and proceeded to sip some of the soup. His face turned sour, fettered by the overwhelming taste of pepper, and he spurted the gross concoction into a nearby sink, almost spitting all of the soup on the floor. He grimaced as he turned his head towards a sheepishly grinning rock type. It chuckled anxiously.

“What on earth is this...toilet bowl of a stew you just cooked?!” bellowed the purugly, brutally blunt in the volume of his voice.

“I-its my mom's recipe...”

“I couldn't give a damn about your family recipe! It's awful! It makes me wish I was never born for God's sake!” ranted the purugly, each word a shot to the heart of the archen.

“I-I can make it better sir...just give me some time and I'll have a new recipe fixed up for you in no time!”

“Do you realize how expensive wingull is?! I can't just waltz into a mortuary expecting the people to give me a dead wingull!” continued the purugly, each word bellowing and causing Marth to frown a little more every second.

“Rutherford,” suddenly called from the doorway, a delcatty striding into the room and beside Rutherford gently, “Don't yell like that...the physician said that it isn't good for your blood pressure.”

“Fine, dearie...” said Rutherford, suddenly opiated by her tender persuasion. “Marth, I'm sorry for being harsh with you on the soup...at least you can make a broth with the other bits and pieces of the wingull.”

Marth gasped in relief, he had dodged the bullet of corporal punishment this time. “A-and I'll be able to make a ramen in replacement...I already have florentined cabbage and spicy shrimp all set up for tonight's dinner party.”

“See honey?” cooed Angie Appolinarus, “Our little chef is quite the resourceful little bird, isn't he?” Marth scratched the back of his head and blushed in embarassment. The delcatty exited.

“Anyway, I was here on business, Marth.” resumed the purugly, “Last I checked you were decent at fending off bad guys, correct?”

the archen nodded. “T-thats why I was apprenticed to Master Alfred...its a long story, yeah.” he said, as he dumped the expensive soup down the drain of the stone sink.

“And you aren't busy midday?” Marth was more or less always occupied with writing sappy, poorly written poetry to his crush during that time.

“N-no...” Marth frowned, realizing that this was likely leading to a disappointment.

“Well, you're hired to escort Jane to her training with Tom Hannibal on thursdays, tuesdays and saturdays.” Marth was doubly dissapointed. Saturday afternoon was when he actually delivered the poetry to the apple of his eyes. It was probably for the best, though; Marth almost always ended up getting a fist to his face after his poetry was sampled.

“B-but I have a personal life!” Marth whined pathetically; for someone who could take on 5 mafia underlings at the same time, the archen could be a really pissy guy.

“That's a shame, now isn't it?” said Rutherford as he turned around, cold shoulder freezing Marth's teeth off. “Besides, its only 2 hours of your free time; I'd be jealous of you if I got a break as long as yours.” Rutherford stood, facing away from the archen, and turned his own head towards him one last time for a parting food for thought: “And if you're ever discontented with my orders, then you can feel free to go ahead and pack your things.” and with that, Rutherford was heading back into his room, ready to finish his chapter on calculus.

“Mamma mia...” and the little bird refilled his cauldron for the ramen, sprinkling in tasty rattata whiskers inside...

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Richter, with his arms crossed and flat brows, wasn't pleased to have his mother stare at him from across the flimsy, balsam table in their dining room. He knew exactly what he had done to deserve something as petty as a time-out, in spite of being some 10 years too old for something so juvenile. But here he was. “You just had to prove that nuzleaf wrong, didn't you Richter?” said his mother grovyle, regarding her sons impulse to one-up someone else as a disappointment. Richter stayed silent.

Barely any light was cast on the little kitchen by the sun, just falling over the hill. Only a tiny, slender candle between mother and son lit the entirety of the room. Most of the furniture was pure wood, old feathers stuffed faded upholstery, and the every inch of the house smelled like grepa berry wine. It irritates the nose after a considerable amount of time, however. Everyone in the house was dead silent, only breathing, or in the case of Richter's father, who clanked a tea mug on the wood every now and then in between smooth sips. He was a heliolisk who married his mother under the impression that her acres of grepa berry fields would make her a trophy wife. He was wrong; but there was still some love in the relationship from there on out (emphasis on the word “some”). Mostly, the lizard reserved himself to reading a newspaper or an almanac during the evening because of how drowsy he was. It made him excellent at working the fields, though he had little energy to stay with his family during the evening. The sun was about to set, so he would soon be off to bed.

“The sooner you answer me the sooner You can go to bed. I'll stay here all night if I have to.” Pollyanna the grovyle had triumped. This was the third time today that Richter had been in a mental checkmate.

“I...he's always trying to be better than everyone else...I hate how self righteous that guy is!” suddenly groaned Richter, engineering his logos as he went.

“He's got a point, Polly.” mumbled Emon the heliolisk, “Those nuzlocke are gonna be the end of the entire region...Sure, it starts out dandy with Prinemport giving sanctuary to them, but next thing you know the Pomeg guild can't stop the horde of b******s for sh-”

“I'm trying to have a word with Richter, Emon.” replied Polly, turning back to her son and barely annoyed by the sudden 2 cents from her husband. “Well I'll tell you what: aren't you just as self righteous when you try to challenge him? Why were you really trying to outdo that Nuzleaf?” silence.

“B-because I wanted to be better than him. I thought that if I saved the broach then I'd be able to rub it in his face.”

“Because?...” an even longer pause.

“Because what else am I supposed to do?! Sit here for the rest of my life farming grepa berries and scraping a living off of farming grepa berries for subpar wine? This family is a black sheep when it comes to our quality! Our only customers are the people that run scummy wedding chapels for idiots who think they've fallen in love at first sight! I hate it all and if I can prove that I can outplay that snake, then I'll be happy!” Richter felt the fatigue of yelling towards his mother like a runaway train. How dare he speak up to what was probably the most patient grovyle in the world. Richter had been standing up as he ranted on about how much his life displeased him. He sat down the second that he saw his mother unaffected by his outburst.

“Really now?... What am I supposed to say? Go ahead and forge your own life and leave your mother and father without work? We'll starve.”

“Well I'm 17 goddamn years old and its time that I be able to call my own shots. I want to be treated like an adult.” more silence loomed in the air as the sun said its last goodbye to the day, going over and taking a 10 hour nap until he was ready to rise again.

Emon stood up and arched his back to strech, and with his mug in hand he ambled towards the kitchen counter and set it down. “I'm going to bed,” uttered Emon in between a yawn, “See you there if I'm still awake.” He took to the hall and collapsed on his bed without any regards to his nightly routine.

“You only become an adult when you start to act like one. You already slept in today, played hooky so that you could be better then someone who was minding their own business-”

“I was gonna turn that broach in!-”

“So that you could parade around your good deed like a jackass, right.” trumped, the treecko stared on at his mother without any more energy to rebuttle. “And you have a load of cuts and bruises instead of the broach. You also stole oran berries. They cost us a fortune...You wanna be the adult?” the grovyle made an intense, smugly compassionate glare. “Tell me what your punishment should be.”

“I did nothing wrong.”

“I'll tell you what, Richter, it takes some maturity to answer to your mistakes, and if you don't...then you'll be no different than you were 8 years ago with a lollypop stuck to your tongue, begging me to get it off and having to call a doctor to get it off.” both giggled at the comic relief, only one was left blushing furiously. “Want me to tell you what my version of the punishment is gonna be?” Richter nodded, locked in a verbal clench hold by his own mother. “You'll be stuck in the house for a month. Your father will travel to the store and you'll do double the work to make up for his absences. If you aren't eating or drinking you'll be harvesting grapes or fermenting the grepa berry juice. And you most certainly won't have any contact with any of your friends. Do you have a better punishment?”

“...no.”

“Good,” tweeted Pollyanna righteously,”and I forgot to mention the first part. You're going off to bed right now. No dinner. Tata~.” Richter groaned, the nail in the coffin piercing his heart; he couldn't stand not having dinner, and was praying that he wouldn't be deprived of a supper for his life. Making up his own punishment would have been far better. “I love you, Richter!” the grovyle waved goodbye to her son. He slammed his door and collapsed on his bed as fast as his father had done.”

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Everything was in place. It was thankfully only about an hour walk to the Pomeg guild from the vineyard. Not a penny was out of place; Richter's excellent night vision had served him well, and he was able to scrounge up enough petty cash to get dinner for 7 days if there was a wait to get inside of the guild. He had a lighter, in case he needed to camp outside of the city gates until morning, and most importantly, a picture of his family to artifice a piece of sentimentality. The night was cool and the grass was damp enough to allow him light footing outside of his house to make sure that his parents wouldn't wake up. He had everything he needed to run away.

Tonight had pushed him over the edge; it led him to the only conclusion that the only place where he would truly be able to find some peace of mind and get control of his miserable life was the Pomeg guild. He heard fantastic stories of knights and great warriors who protected Prinemport and everywhere in Gambria. Maybe he could rise into their ranks and get his parents a decent piece of land so that they could sell higher quality wine. Above all, however, Richter had a guarantee that he would be able to commandeer his own future where he was going.

He slung his bag over his shoulders, and with incredible dexterity he opened the window without a trace and sped off on the flank of his house. Just before he crossed into the forest, however, Richter caught glimpse of his parents, sleeping together soundly but peacefully in spirit. The one downside to living away from home.

Richter only sniffled as he continued on into the night, bound for Prinemport.

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Ramsey had his legs crossed, seated quite comfortably on his wooden, oak floor regretfully carved from the organs of his fellow wooden brothers. Though it was not literal, shiftry felt an inherent unity with all forms of wood, only using it as an ultimate means to an end for shelter. They flocked to the most flame resistant, pines were a favorite in construction because they weren't easy to burn. Among the other adornments in Ramsey-sama's comfortable bungalow among the tallest oak tree in Prinemport forest were organically carved drawers and braziers for flames to burn brightly and illuminate only the horizon of the room, the ceiling was dark and spiraled upward. A banner spelling: “Elder” was emblazoned in white on a green sheet of pure linen behind the elder himself. Before him stood a mat, colored a lighter green, which would be sat upon when Pokemon desired audience with the daimyo. One of his greatest ally and enemy was about to enter.

A nuzleaf approached, wearing a green flag on his back and wielding a naginata made out of carved wood, though he toted the latter at his side like a soldier. “Ramsey-sama,” began the nuzleaf with a robotic dignity, “You have summoned Inrinara to your chamber and he is outside of the door. We await further address.”

“Allow Inrinara to enter; he and I have much to discuss.” lethargically cooed the kneeling shiftry. He had been looking forward to scolding the nuzleaf since the time Inrinara had began a crusade for orthodoxy, and the leverage tasted delicious.

“Yes, Ramsey-sama.” the guard-nuzleaf left, away to bring the renegade to his judge. Ramsey indeed had a very funny name; it was one of the downsides to being cast away. Romanizing one's name was in fact quite demeaning to the average member of a seedot family, but Ramsey saw it as necessary to be a diplomat with the prinemportians. After all, he had a colony to maintain. It were the little siinuous bends in the rules that made Ramsey so adept at running Prinemport Outskirt Seedot Society (POSS). Lack of the above was what brought Inrinara to Ramsey-sama.

Inrinara entered. He looked at the shiftry with an indignant grimace and knelt at the mat. The two bowed. “The other elders aren't here. If you're going to punish me do so on the accord of the other elders.” said a stern nuzleaf.

“You and I both know that you're only calling on a jury that will have empathy for you. Oimatsu, Gomashira, so many of those conservatives all want a little pet to champion their “new youth”. They to do that when you and I chat together.”

“You disobey shiftry law!” suddenly gushed Inrinara, “It is required that a caucus be summoned in order to judge a member-”

“I know the book of mandates like the back of my fan, Inrinara of Prinemport Forest. I also know that they have been written and kept for 1000 years, during a time when Shiftry faced no opposition and did not have to adapt to survive.”

Vehement, Inrinara looked up at a shiftry, stalwart in his interpretations of the law. “That subtracts nothing from your disgraceful violations.”

“Who are you to talk?”

“You said it yourself, Ramsey-sama: Inrinara of Prinemport Forest!” at this exclamation, Inrinara proudly beat his chest, putting emphasis on his identity. “I have done no sin in sending those loyal to me into valiant combat, and you should be proud that a successor to your lineage has gone the distance in apprehending an invade-”

“When did I say anything about you inheriting a spot in shiftry eldership? If so, it certainly won't be from me or anybody that has a lick of sense, Inrinara.”

“Are you deaf to your own words!?!” said the nuzleaf, suddenly standing up, provoked by Ramsey's insult to the elders who fawned over Inrinara. ”You are the fool here, going so far as to violating mandates twice! I have only addressed you by your proper address through the entirety of my summoning; you have just breached mandate 7,829 by not doing the same!”

“Here's the thing, Inrinara of Prinemport Forest,” said Ramsey-sama, suddenly reverted to his proper, archaic shiftry custom. “I'm not one to fuss over little details like those. They're often broken. You're breaking mandate 1,600 by standing up in the presence of an elder's audience.” Ramsey grinned smugly, watching the look of sheer shock on Inrinara's face as he knelt down at rocket-speed. “And speaking of breaking mandates...lets look at some of the more significant breaches on your end...”

“Mandate no. 529: no seedot or young pokemon should ever be put into combat or the like lest they be the age of ten or older. Mandate no. 277: only shiftry are permitted to train inferior evolutions in physical facets. Mandate no. 300: any streams are sacred; they allow water to be bequeathed unto trees and serve as our force of life. They are to be used for that alone. Mandate no. 25: no nuzleaf is to deface the private property of another pokemon.” the veins on Inrinara's forehead bulged further and further in dissapointment, his jaw falling lower and lower at his own incompetence. He hit the floor in disgust with himself. “It seems like someone is fixing to violate mandate no. 25, isn't he?” Inrinara groaned. “The list goes on, Inrinara of Prinemport forest, and you'll notice that as the imporance of the mandate grows-”

“The severity in its offense increases to our elders.” a pause lay between the two.

“Mandate number 1,025 states that one is to not interrupt an elder.” Inrinara screamed inside.

“You made an incredible, nigh unforgivable offense, today, which is why I summoned you: so that I can atone you for your violation of mandate number 4!” suddenly roared the shiftry, eyebrows tilted downwards furiously as he stood up and approached his fellow nuzleaf. “You used energy ball through nature power!”

“In self defense!” indignantly stated Inrinara in reply.

“Don't give me that! You challenged the innocent outsider to a fight! You had know business knowing that technique in the first place, Inrinara of Prinemport Forest!” Inrinara wanted to continue on, but his rhetoric was trumped outrightly. The nuzleaf's head tilted downwards in shame. He hadn't realized how much he had shot himself in the foot. “See?! Everyone is guilty! I'm guilty and you are and the sooner you accept less than perfection, the sooner you can learn to live in peace! Now kneel!” Inrinara knelt. “by mandate 9,212, I will now state your punishment, for I have formally addressed the reason of your punishment.” Inrinara nodded. Ramsey could grin; this would be his favorite part of the conversation. He cast his fan towards the nuzleaf, preparing his sentence...

“You are to expiate your sins through a five year service at the Pomeg guild in Prinemport!” roared Ramsey succinctly. “I sentence you as such to give you perspective and to prevent any further damage to the P O S S by a petty hooligan!” All means of sounds were going on in Inrinara's noggin, mostly those of dissapointment and wails for someone to pinch him. This was a fate worse than death. He sure as hell didn't want to be surrounded by a group of liberal knights set on dismantling the Prinemport nuzleaf tribe, one of the only authentic colonies west of the East!

“I have already arranged your brethren to gather your things. You are to be escorted by me to the Pomeg guild tomorrow morning. I have already corresponded with the grandmaster of the guild; he is quite prepared to receive you and you will begin your rigorous, Pomeg brand of training tommorow.” Inrinara had no more energy to object. He whimpered softly, utterly disgusted but forced by his platinum conscience to obey his daimyo. “You are dismissed.”

“Y-yes Ramsey-sama.” The two retreated, Ramsey kneeling at his linen pillow and quite keen to sleep. Nuzleaf muttered curses to himself in Nihon as he prepared to sleep in his bed for five years. Ramsey the shiftry chuckled, for the expulsion of Inrinara was a good riddance indeed.

--------------------------------------------------------------

<<mach punch>> Tom was presently rushing at the red rice bag like a machine gun, punching it as his gloves gleamed like steel. To say the least, Pascal and Ulivier were impressed. “How do you do that?” asked a wide eyed Pascal in awe, “I don't think anyone can move that fast.”

Hannibal shrugged, striking the bag one last time and then turning towards the two, somewhat in debt of air. He went on in the most stereotypical answer ever: “Practice! It doesn't happen over night; ye've gotta have some experience if you wanna pull off a mach punch as perfectly as that. I've had 40 years of that.”

“Forty?” thought Pascal out loud “You look like you're at most thirty years old.”

“I don't sound like it from what you've heard; that's the thing.” said Tom as he began to stow away all of his bags, carrying up to four at a time to a nearby shed. He returned soon after, speaking each time he returned in grunts. “I'm an old coot, really, and I act the part. Do you think that I go out to caravan with the pomeg guild on a daily basis?” Pascal and Ulivier nodded, though they were disappointed ephemerally because Tom was busy lugging two punching bags to his shed. He suddenly set one down, chuckling some. “This one's getting old. Might as well put it in its place.” he put the other bag down and breathed heavily, radiating heat and putting his fists up. With a simple, uppercut jab, the bag had flown up, the water vapor in the air instantly crystallizing hitting a tree branch and shattering into snowflakes. <<ice punch+bullet punch>>. The hitmonchan wheezed somewhat, and clasped his knees, looking as if he might faint. Shocked, Ulivier and Pascal followed after concernedly and examining a mortally fatigued fighting type.

“A-are you alright, monsieur?” inquired Pascal. Tom only groaned and huffed in reply, getting on his knees and looking as if he might faint!

“I-I'm...I'm...” said Tom feebly, turning towards the two with somber, heavy eyes. “I'm...pulling your leg!” he suddenly smiled and stood up like a spring chicken, proud that he had rused the other two pokemon. Pascal and Ulivier's eyes sagged down in dismay. “Look at you, letting a geezer thirty-five years older than you be better at jokin' around than you.” Tom went back to work, slinging the younger and cleanlier bag over his shoulder and going to the shed. The balloon and snail followed. “By the way, you answered wrong on the last question; the last time that I ever even thought about going on another guild adventure was 5 years ago.”

“What made you stop?” asked Ulivier.

“Just look at me! I'm in no condition to go out and about on adventures.”

“Yes you are!” chimed the two.

“You just sent that punching bag to high heaven just by tapping it!”

“Sure, but that's no reason why I should get on a caravan.” Tom Hannibal arrived at the shed and slid on in, rummaging for a spot to keep his used punch bag. “I'm on retirement because I don't feel that sense of novelty anymore. It simply isn't fun to me and I'll probably slow the people that want to go on a good adventure anyhow.” Tom exited his wooden, rickety old equipment storage to return to the verdant clearing where he trained. Once again, he had a two man following. “And when you get old, there's this thing called obligation that sorta builds up and restricts you to a certain lifestyle. I sorta envy you two because of that; you can go anywhere and do anything you want without any ramifications. That changes when you turn thirty.” The Hitmonchan shut the door to the shed. “By fifty you're in a trap. You have no clue how many favors I owe people and how many enemies I've made.”

“Is that why you had to train that skitty?” asked Pascal, “She didn't look like she was particularly cut out to fight...”

Ambiguously, Tom nodded. “Yes and no. Anyone can learn how to be decent at the game.” Tom let the comment sit in the air, pausing to make sure that his agenda got across to the two, “I have to be extraordinarily careful in the city; there's an enormous mafia that Isn't friendly to do-gooders.”

“A mafia?!” asked Pascal “My big brothers tell me that Prinemport is the prettiest place in the world.”

“From above, sure. Its got a lovely coast, but you'll notice that there isn't much of a tourism industry 'round these parts because of them. Go to any government building and you'll be told that two thirds of the people that have come to Prinemport have been robbed, and the unlucky one-sixth gets mugged up front. The Mafia loves tourists, which is why tourists hate Prinemport.” the three continued onward up the winding trail, Ulivier straining his legs to follow Hannibal only because of his own interest in his usherings. “Aside from that, Prinemport has a mean market because of all the imports. I suppose that's one benefit of the mafia: they're sea-faring folk, and there's a whole network of the mafia around the Nellilassan sea. They can bribe food and goods barges up the nose to give them prime supply, and we get all of the good stuff.” the group then stood before the other implements used for training, Tom noticing how derelict and broken they all looked.

“I gotta go to town to get kebbia berries anyway...” muttered Tom as he was thereby disgusted by the condition of all his gear. He began to set all of it up in an even line, preparing to throw a decimating straight through the whole of them.

“Where are you from?” asked Pascal, “That accent of yours isn't typical for Gambrians.”

“You're right.” the English air in the back of Tom's voice suddenly became noticeable to Ulivier, “I've moved here to work for the hierophant back when I got kicked out of Vilhemshire sparring academy up north. It was the sensible thing to do; the hierophant needs working hands to keep him safe and I was probably the best talent around the entirety of the continent.”

Now all of the bags, pugil sticks, sparring equipment and more which had been in decline stood along in a well established line. Inhaling in a similar fashion to Tom's first, viscious assault, the fighting type stood ready to take care of his broken hardware. His right mitt grew white hot and as he yelled he dashed through the alligned baggage so rapidly that in a blink of an eye, he was on the other side of the broad collumn, momentarily standing lunged past them, fist still extended as his equipment seemed unnaffected by his dash. Before Ulivier or Pascal could react, the whole of the equipment suddenly flashed and conflagurated furiously, disintegrating into white-hot ashes <<focus punch+fire punch>>. The two were probably the most astonished that they had ever been in their life. “W-why and how did you just do that?” sheepishly uttered Ulivier, scared half to death at how impressively the dirty equipment had been destroyed.

“Why?” Tom turned towards the duo, approaching them and shaking his still searing fist to cool it down, “It was getting old! If your gear is in poor condition, then you've got a real problem: you only train as well as your implements are. I have some spare cash from training people, anyway. It's how I make myself useful. I've also gotta buy kebbia berries, 'cause they're the only thing I can stomach on a fast.” Tom arched his back, and set off to the trail back to the main road. “I'll be off then.”

“B-but you haven't given us actual answers!” said Ulivier, somewhat timid in his delivery

“And we're going to Prinemport too!” added Pascal.

Tom Hannibal turned around, glancing at the snail and balloon warmly. “There's no reason why you can't come along~.” Before the two knew it they were on the road with Tom Hannibal.

…

“...So that's why I was kicked out of Vilhemshire prime. Who would've though that I'd end up getting expelled framed for a teacher's murder?” said the Hitmonchan as he continued down the road to Prinemport, Pascal floating and Ulivier hobbling beside him.

“That's kinda grim,” said Pascal. An ampibom passed by, lugging a cart full of grepa berry ferment on his way to Midron city to deliver it to the hierophant. Pascal and Tom waved, Ulivier lacking arms or social energy to greet the monkey, and the ampibom waved back as she walked on her trip.

“It's what happens when you're the top of your class and you have jealous classmates. But yeah, because I got framed the Hierophant wasn't eager to hire me. I was stuck in Prinemport from there, and I found out that Pomeg guild was really excited to have someone as distinguished as I in the area. I had no where else to go, so I accepted.”

“W-what's a guild?” asked Ulivier, somewhat shy in his shell. He hadn't eaten all day, so he was quite grouchy and shy.

“Right, you two aren't from these parts. A guild, Pomeg guild in particular, is where dungeoneers hang out to sleep, eat, and stay when they aren't out and about doing their jobs. I'll have to show you there when we get to prinemport. I had a blast there when I was younger.” the midday sun was starting to wane in the sky; the shadows of grepa trees started to tilt towards the three. It was quite a while since any of them had eaten. “Of course, that'll be before we go get some grub.”

Ulivier eyed Pascal, too exhausted and bashful to ask Mr. Hannibal the essential questions. “Mr. Hannibal?”

“Hm?”

“You wouldn't happen to be on terms with a Doctor Seamus Carrol, would you?”

“Well, when you're as much of a celebrity as I am, you get around and know people.”

“So you would be willing to contact him for us? We have a question for Doctor Carrol.”

“No.” the two frowned momentarily. Ulivier looked like he might have cried. “But I can tell you how you can contact him when we eat.”

“What for?”

“I wanna save the surprise for when you've got a full stomach. We're also almost to the gate, so we've gotta shut up to make it look like we're on business.” The three did from there on, for the most part.

“H-hey...Mr. Hannibal?” whimpered Ulivier.

“Yes?”

“Do you know anything about humans?”

the hitmonchan put his mitt to his chin pensively for a few moments.

“No.”

“Damnit.”